


take me to the dreamer's ball

by belgard



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: (even though they've dated...), Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff and Angst, I promise, M/M, Mutual Pining, Regret, School Dances, even though deak and rog are in different facilities, happy ending !!!!!, john's pretty eyes making an appearance, set in the 1970's, there's a prom/dance for the entire campus, they're just mad for each other okay :(, they're still in the science and technology division, they're still so desperate for each other but far too scared to do anything, they’re bitter exes, they’re rly just dumbasses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 10:27:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17558654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belgard/pseuds/belgard
Summary: months after their fight, roger finds himself longing for his ex-lover who's sitting alone at the corner of the ballroom with a pout on his pretty lips—a sight that roger has always loved to see.roger feels his skin thrumming with the desire to ask him for a dance.just one more dance, that's all he's asking for.





	take me to the dreamer's ball

**Author's Note:**

> this is a little fic (a ficlet????) inspired by the song "dreamer's ball." just something quick that i wrote last night lol i hope you like it!!! please leave a comment and kudos uwu

 

 

This could be a terrific night, Roger muses.

The ballroom is full of people, full of energy, full of what could be _joy_ for him, but he just can’t fathom how hollow he feels inside. He’s standing near a punch stand, and it’s his fourth scoop of the obnoxious red-orange liquid inside of those enormous glass bowls, the surface of it literred with cut up pieces of lemons and oranges and little translucent red jellies that almost made him choke and die on his first glass. He feels like his suit is just fucking suffocating him, and he decides to act up on it, he undoes the tie and pops open the top three buttons.

He doesn’t even know why he’s here. The university decided to throw a massive prom-esque party that could be seen by the students as a _fabulous_ excuse for booze and sex, and he would be pumped for it if it hadn’t been for that fight he had with John. John said that it was ‘over, and I’m so fucking sick of this.’

Roger doesn’t want it to be over; not now, not ever.

It seems like John has always been the reason why he smiled every single day, and he wishes with his entire being that he hadn’t said that John was ‘such a coward’ for ‘being a _fucking_ _cunt_! _I just wanna hold your hand and take you out to dinner and kiss you before you leave me at the bus stop. God, I want us to be together just like any other bloody couple roaming about in London, fucking snobs.’_ He should have understood how John was feeling, how scared he was, how hesitant he was. He should’ve been so fucking selfish to the point that his boyfriend had to grip on his own hair and scream because of his pent-up frustration over the fact that he simply just wasn’t ready.

He wasn’t ready, and Roger didn’t even try to comfort him over that.

God, he feels like such a wanker. A right cunt. A massive twat.

He will never forget the way John looked right after he said that, in the middle of his room, his greenish-grey eyes twinkling against the sunlight streaming inside the room with blossoming tears, a sight that was so, so heart-wrenching to the point that it made Roger abandon sleep for days. He will never forget they way John’s pretty rose lips tremble just in the slightest way, his fingers shaking against his thighs. God, he wants to cradle John’s face in his hands and tell him that he’s so, so sorry.

He wants to be able to kiss him again, make him smile against his lips and breathe against his cheek in a way that makes his heartbeat stuttering and his toes curl just at how sweet John is, the way he is, the way he tastes, the way he simply _exists._

John felt like a dream, a brightly-lit ball with beautiful gowns and masks and delicate dances and laughter _everywhere,_ full of roses and glimmering diamonds, so beautiful to the point that one might wonder if it’s all even real. Roger was a dreamer. He fit in, right there, in the dream that John is.

And Roger doesn’t want it to end.

John is all he could ever ask for, and how the world did he manage to fuck _this_ up as well as any other thing in his life, he thinks to himself.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Roger just doesn’t know, that John has been sneaking glances at the lonely blond Biology major standing near the fruit punches, hoping that he’ll spare him a glance.

 _Ask me to dance with you, for fuck’s sake,_ he hopes in his head, wishing that Roger will just stop all of this and walk over to him with that cocky bravado he misses so much . _All you have to do is come over here and ask to take my hand. I’ll let you;  god, I’ll let you._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

John looks beautiful tonight.

He’s wearing a silk white dress shirt that’s loose over his figure, with the buttons almost halfway unbuttoned, revealing the smooth plane of his chest. Over that, he’s wearing a black blazer with a little black and white rose brooch made from leftover fabric; Roger remembers the moment when their friend Freddie gave it to him for his birthday, among three more presents, remembers the moment when he sees John just light up as Freddie reaches down to pin the brooch on the right side of his blazer, looking at it with pride whilst John was on the verge of tears. For the shoes, Roger doesn’t have to think far, John must be wearing one of his platform boots that makes him four inches taller.

Beneath the lights on the ceiling of the ballroom, John looks absolutely breath-taking, the fabric of his shirt shifting beneath the light whenever he fumbles in a way that’s just _right_ , and his skin is gleaming, even though he’s pouting and his eyes are averted down towards his own thighs.

Roger wants to lift his chin up with his finger and kiss that pout right off his lips—he knows just how much John loved it whenever he did that to him.

His long brown hair – god knows how soft it really is – is flowing down in gentle waves, looking so effortlessly perfect in such a way that makes Roger wonder if John spent a good ten minutes styling his hair in front of his mirror until they look just so. There’s always a kind of oddly attractive aura about him that he just exudes with no abandon, like he wants _everyone_ within a one mile radius from him to suffer, and Roger’s a fallen victim for it. He’s charming in a calm and quiet and intriguing kind of way, and Roger wants to have him by his side again. Tell him that it was all a mistake and they were just being daft little college boys who know jack shit about how relationship works.

It’s communication, he’d say. They need to have better communication.

John is sitting there all by himself in that table at the corner, the empty seats around him just practically _screaming_ at him to walk over and ask him for a dance. God, how much he wants that. Roger feels his own hands go over to the side of table and just grips on it, an aching feeling slowly pulsing near the bridge of his nose.

Fucking hell, Roger wants to ask him for a dance. Even if it’s only one, he’ll take it. He wants to hold John’s ridiculously soft yet callused hands in his again, hold his narrow waist that just fit perfectly in his palms – like it was meant to be the whole time – and he wants to look into his hypnotising eyes and kiss his cheek and run his fingers through his wavy hair and say to him that he’s the most gorgeous thing in the entire place tonight. And on other nights. And the nights after that.

John just looks gorgeous every time.

He wants to make the boy laugh again, see that little gap in his teeth that make him look like the most precious thing on earth, see the way the corners of his eyes crinkle up and see how his cheekbones just _rise_ up and see the way his eyes smile along with his pretty lips. Roger feels a pang in his chest, regret and guilt filling his entire being so slowly, that it almost feels like his own feelings are patronising him. He should’ve never done that, he should’ve never.

He could have John in his arms right now, if he hadn’t done that. If they never had that fight. If John hadn’t said that he wanted to break up. If Roger hadn’t said that John was a coward.

Roger wants to say that he loves him. He loves John, more than anything in this fucking world.

He feels himself shaking his own head, as if shaking off the thoughts of his past lover, but he doesn’t want to forget about him, please, please, _please_ —but instead he resorts to take a few more scoops of punch from the ladle, before lifting the glass up to his lips and downing it in one go. There’s a rush of someting up his spine, but he shrugs it off.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Bastard._

John sees the way Roger is standing next to the punch stand, refilling one glass after one glass after another, no doubt in his intention of getting himself absolutely pissed. John feels his own knuckles gripping onto the edge of the table so tight he’s starting to see them turn white, _god_ , he wants to walk over there and just smack his ex lover to make him snap out of it. Tell him to stop what he’s doing, all this... sneaking glances over to his direction.

As if John didn’t notice every single one of them.

Of course he did, because that’s the exact same thing he’s been doing to Roger the entire night.

He wants Roger to know that he forgives him. He knows what Roger wanted, and even though he might not be able to make it a reality this time, he promises he will, because he wants the same thing as well. More than anything in this world. He promises he will—he’ll let him hold his hand and swing it back and forth as they walk over to that coffee shop they loved to visit so much on the windy Saturdays. He’ll let Roger press him against the rusting streetlight late at night and kiss him there whilst he waits for his bus, he’ll let Roger grab his waist and make every press of his lips mean _something_ , because he knows the way Roger kissed him always made him feel like he’s finally existing. He’ll dance with Roger at the middays, beneath the London rain, laughing and spinning around even when people stare at them with disgust or with disdain, he doesn’t care, he wants Roger’s body next to him, skin against his—warm in such a way that sends shivers down his spine and heats his heart up.

He wants to kiss Roger again, it doesn’t matter if it’s only one kiss.

John wants to tell him that he’s sorry he’s still scared of it, but he’ll _never_ regret ever being with Roger. He wants to tell him that being with him has been one of the best things that has happened in his life. 

He misses making Roger smile, oh-so-prettily, and he misses the way Roger makes him smile, making his life worthwhile.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

His heart aches.

He wants to hold John’s hand in his, to look down and see the way his hand fits against his like two puzzle pieces, matching perfectly. John’s hands were always so cold, but somehow when Roger’s held them long enough, they became so warm to the point that they melt the coldness surrounding them.

He looks over to the boy he loves so much, sitting alone with his head bowed down.

_I love you._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 _Ask me to dance with you_ , _you fucking coward_ , John’s mind chants and repeats like a prayer,  _ask me_ now _—I miss dancing with you._

He misses dancing with Roger in his room to any tune that’s playing on his little radio, holding Roger’s hand in his, feeling the way Roger’s hands places itself on his hips so naturally it’s as if it was meant to be like that all this time. He misses resting his head on Roger’s shoulder as he sways them both together, basking in the remaining sunlight streaming right through the windows and into the room, making a little circle at the centre of the room, almost like a little spotlight, made just for them where they are the centre of attention in the afternoon glory, a spectacle for a ballroom devoid of any audience.

He misses the feeling of Roger’s lips pressing a kiss on the side of his head, taking some strands of his long hair before pushing it over his shoulders so Roger can press  another kiss onto the side of his neck.

This little thing they had all the time—they called it their own waltz.

God, he misses it. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Looking over at the sight of the dance floor, he feels a scowl forming on his lips just at how the couples dancing there are just _too_ fucking sickeningly-sweet, it’s as if they’re patronising him. He looks at how a girl with a purple dress is cradling her lover’s face in her hands, looking at the boy with so much love it makes Roger want to throw up. The ballroom is massive, so he doesn’t see a sight like that once or twice, but he sees it _repeatedly_. It all only reminds him of those moments he had with John, when they were all alone in John's room, dancing together like it's the last thing they'll do if the world is to end tomorrow. It makes his entire body feel like it's aching, and all he wants is to hold John in his arms and dance with him, have John lead him in the dance because god knows how much of a god-awful dancer Roger is. He wants to hold John's hand, feel that warmth again and feel his body sway against his. This all feels cruel. 

Perhaps it’s the way the universe punishes him, but if he has to be frank to himself, he deserves it.

This time, when he looks over to the boy sitting alone, he sees that John is looking right at him, with his doe-eyes wide and his eyebrows raised in a way that makes him like a puppy.

And then  he turns his head away.

Biting down a smile, there’s only one thing on Roger’s mind right now.

_Fuck it._

He walks over to the boy, pushing past the crowd on the dance floor with the promise of John.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_My heart fucking hurts._

_Is this what love is supposed to feel like?_

_It feels like absolute shite._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 Roger wants the world to swallow him whole.

He didn't think that standing right in front of John after  _months_ would feel as nerve-wracking as this. His heart is beating so fast to the point he's scared that John might hear it. John looks even more breath-taking up close, with his hair shining beneath the lights and his skin gleaming and his entire presence hypnotising. God, Roger feels like he's going to pass out from how scared he is, scared to finally see John again properly, scared to see what John would think of him now.  But he doesn't think about that for now, fearing that the only thing holding him back is himself. So he braces himself, for the worst, and for the best. 

“Hey, you,” Roger says gently, clearing his throat when he hears how hoarse it actually sounds like to his ears. “Would you like to dance with me, Deaky?”

And then John slowly raises his head, looking up at him with eyes that look so gorgeous it almost snatches Roger’s breath away from him, his eyelashes framing his gaze in a way that sets gentle shadows over his freckled cheeks, now coloured scarlet, and Roger has no doubt that it must feel warm if he were to put the palm of his hand against it.

John’s lips is forming a little _o_ shape – that little habit of his that Roger loves so much, it shows that John is startled or surprised – and he just looks like a burst of _stars_ , Roger doesn’t know how to explain it or how to form together a string of words for how beautiful and exhilarating it is, to just look at John, and have John look back at him. John looks like a constellation, bursting at the seams and coaxing him to walk closer and closer until he burns the tip of his finger, and Roger does exactly that.

When John breaks into a sweet grin, Roger realises that perhaps John is the only reason why he’s living. Life doesn’t mean a thing to him, all the things in it are nothing compared to the way John is smiling right now, and _ohmygod, there it is._ John’s shining eyes are always smiling along with his lips whenever he does so, and it’s just the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. The corners of his eyes will crinkle up and the bottom of his eyes just rise up in a way that makes his eyes look like crescent moons.  

The sight destroys him, and it sets his heart on fire, turning his lungs into a garden of flowers and Roger has never felt this way ever in his lifetime but god, it makes his heart ache in just the sweetest way by how he hopes that maybe, just maybe John is still as mad for him as he is for the other.

John is all he could ever ask for.

“I would,” John says to him as a small laugh bubble past his lips, his voice breaking slightly at the end; it makes Roger’s heart melt. Roger sees the way John’s eyes are twinkling beneath the lights, and then he sees a tear slip past one of them, rolling down his cheek in the prettiest way. John stands up, walks around the table until he’s right in front him. “ _God,_ Roger, I would.”

John slips his hand into Roger’s, intertwining their fingers together, and when Roger looks down, he sees it. Two puzzle pieces fitting perfectly for each other.

Roger feels like he’s flying.

When he looks up at John, his cheeks are deep scarlet, and he’s smiling so wide even though his cheeks are wet with tears.

He pulls John into in arms, feeling himself letting out a breath when he finally feels John’s arms around him again, his chin tucked into the crook of his shoulder. His mind is screaming at him, his heart is cheering for him, and even though he doesn’t know what this means for the two of them, he couldn’t care less.

He feels like he’s  living all over again.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> hhhhh that was so short


End file.
